"Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs ("Роковые яйца")" - читать интересную книгу автора

"You can go, Pankrat," the Professor said heavily, with a wave of the
hand. "Go to bed, Pankrat, my dear fellow."
And so night fell. Pankrat left the study quickly on tiptoe for some
reason, ran to his cubby-hole, rummaged among a pile of rags in the corner,
pulled out an already opened bottle of vodka and gulped down a large
glassful. Then he ate some bread and salt, and his eyes cheered up a bit.
Late that evening, just before midnight, Pankrat was sitting barefoot
on a bench in the poorly lit vestibule, talking to the indefatigable bowler
hat on duty and scratching his chest under a calico shirt.
"Honest, it would've been better if he'd done me in..."
"Was he really crying?" asked the bowler hat, inquisitively.
"Honest he was," Pankrat insisted.
"A great scientist," the bowler hat agreed. "A frog's no substitute for
a wife, anyone knows that."
"It sure isn't," Pankrat agreed.
Then he paused and added:
"I'm thinking of bringing the wife up here... No sense her staying in
the country. Only she couldn't stand them there reptiles..."
"I'm not surprised, the filthy things," agreed the bowler hat.
Not a sound could be heard from the Professor's study. The light was
not on either. There was no strip under the door.


CHAPTER VIII. The Incident at the State Farm

There is no better time of the year than mid-August in Smolensk
Province, say. The summer of 1928 was a splendid one, as we all know, with
rains just at the right time in spring, a full hot sun, and a splendid
harvest... The apples on the former Sheremetev family estate were ripening,
the forests were a lush green and the fields were squares of rich yellow...
Man becomes nobler in the lap of nature. Alexander Se-myonovich too did not
seem quite as unpleasant as in the town. And he wasn't wearing that
revolting jacket. His face had a bronze tan, the unbuttoned calico shirt
revealed a chest thickly covered with black hair. He had canvas trousers on.
And his eyes were calmer and kinder.
Alexander Semyonovich trotted excitedly down the colon-naded porch,
which sported a notice with the words "Red Ray State Farm" under a star, and
went straight to the truck that had just brought the three black chambers
under escort.
All day Alexander Semyonovich worked hard with his assistants setting
up the chambers in the former winter garden, the Sheremetevs' conservatory.
By evening all was ready. A white frosted arc lamp shone under the glass
roof, the chambers were set up on bricks and, after much tapping and turning
of shining knobs, the mechanic who had come with the chambers produced the
mysterious red ray on the asbestos floor in the black crates.
Alexander Semyonovich bustled about, climbing up the ladder himself and
checking the wiring.
The next day the same truck came back from the station and spat out
three boxes of magnificent smooth plywood stuck all over with labels and
white notices on a black background that read: